


A marriage of convenience

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose and Walda:  how does their marriage work?</p>
<p>Written for the tenth round of got_exchange on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A marriage of convenience

**Author's Note:**

> The majority of this fic is book canon, but veers a little into show canon with Roose and Walda's meeting with Ramsay. It just streamlines things so nicely to arrive directly at the Dreadfort instead of meeting with Ramsay on the road as in ADWD.

Walda’s stitches are crooked, although they are neat. She works the thread that she’d sent for from White Harbor, edging the small blanket’s border with pink curlicues and scallops. It is not a difficult design, and it keeps her occupied while her husband tends to his own business. She does not begrudge Roose the long hours that he spends in hushed meetings with her kinfolk, her grandfather’s bent and crabbed form leaning over the table as if he wishes to share a dirty secret, or her cousin Lothar’s polite gestures and deferential glances all designed to best curry favor with their House’s newest and best alliance. 

Her maids chatter in the background as they work to pack and fold her clothing. Dress after dress, each festooned with ruffles and ribbons and excessive ornament, is wrapped carefully in linen and stowed away in several large trunks. Walda is not used to such finery, although her family is far from poor. The second daughter of a ninth son cannot expect to become a princess, or even a great lady, but she is bound for the Dreadfort, to a North that she has never known except in fairy stories about great ice giants and long-dead kings and their battles, none of which has ever interested Walda in the slightest. She is not politically-minded, and her thoughts had always drifted when her mother and father had gossiped at table over the various small dramas and machinations that played out in dark corners in the Twins. 

No, she was always one for pleasure, for pretty gowns and sugary tarts, for princesses in pink lace and silly romance stories that she and Ami had passed back and forth, stifling giggles at the lovemaking played out on the page. And although Roose Bolton was far removed from any knight of fancy, Walda was quite pleased when he’d chosen her. She knew that she was not beautiful, and her family nickname had always stung slightly, although she’d hidden any hurt feelings, choosing pleasure over pain. And even though her father and grandfather’s cruel remarks about her size had sometimes led to tears, Ami and Marissa had always told her that she was lovely, and her mother, used to such nonsense, had instructed her to pay no mind, daubing away Walda’s tears, almost business-like in her gestures. But Lord Bolton had not minded such things. Lord Bolton had looked at her with a curious expression, almost a smile, and called her his bride. She knew full well why, and Walda found it quite funny. Her ample figure had at last become an asset, and Roose had wanted _her_ , instead of Fair Walda with her lovely face and graceful walk, Roslin with her sweet blushing smile, and White Walda with her silvery length of hair. 

It was lovely, being the Lady of the Dreadfort, wife to the Warden of the North, instead of the nobody that she had been. It was hard to repress her smiles now, despite the jests that her family made about her husband’s whispery voice and odd habits, leeches and knives and ridiculous pink. 

She rather _likes_ pink.

Her maids gasp, the room falls silent, and Walda lets her sewing drop, the sudden quiet pulling her out of her reverie. The blanket falls to the floor, slipping through her fingers, and she shakes her head at her clumsiness. The embroidery is not finished, and although the decoration is not perfect, she knows that it is unlikely that she will be able to reproduce it as skillfully as the first time. She half-rises from her chair and stops dead at the sight of her new husband standing in the doorway. 

“Roose!” she gasps, frozen in an awkward crouch, which she quickly straightens. Walda’s cheeks flush at the sight of him, a smile spreading across her face as he advances, taking her hand in his own. His fingers are icy but she does not mind, for soon he raises it to his lips in a practiced gesture of courtesy, brushing them against her dimpled knuckles. “What are you doing here, sweet husband?” she continues, leading him into the room, bending to pick up the rumpled blanket, smoothing it down. She notes with relief that her afternoon’s labors have not been in vain, and the decorative border, still lacking the red ornamentations to offset her new House’s colors, has held. 

“What is this, little wife?” Roose asks, his voice almost a nothing in contrast with all of her bustling. He peers over her shoulder, examining the needlework. 

“Something for the Dreadfort,” Walda says, the name of her new home still strange, yet pleasing, in her mouth. She places her hand on his, drawing it close, despite its coldness, and resting it on the swell of her belly. “Something for the baby,” she says, softly enough so that only her husband hears, and her ladies, recovering from their shock, begin again the process of packing her trousseau. 

Walda cranes her neck, her face creased by a broad smile, and notes with pleasure, the slight twist to her husband’s mouth. 

*

The journey north was fairly incidental, Roose crammed in a wheelhouse with the two young girls, his new wife, boisterous and giggly, constantly pressing her face to the small window to see the alien lands pass by, and his son’s bride-to-be, silent and drawn, staring at nothing, and barely acknowledging Walda’s attempts to draw her into the mostly one-sided conversation. He was mostly unused to the company of women, but it was an interesting change after the weary and bloody business of war, and he contented himself with the thought of his heir, newly-formed, and the seeming success that lay before him. 

Walda was so different from his previous wives. His first had been sickly, his father’s botched marriage of convenience, a wan slip of a girl from the Vale, who had not lasted out the year. His second had been cold yet civil, bringing a familial alliance along with the horseflesh and bags of stars that formed her dowry. Neither had, in the end, been able to endure the silence of the Dreadfort with its silent halls and looming towers, dotted here and there with merlons that brought to mind the blades that his ancestors had so prized and wielded. But Walda was all smiles and light, all loud laughter and grasping affection, and although he suspected that the majority of it was only learned behavior, the work of a clever mother or Septa, it was a welcome change. 

She amuses him, his fat little wife, as she plays at needlework, or reads embarrassingly silly tales of chivalry out loud as they plod along in the wheelhouse. It helps to diffuse the irritation that he’d felt when he’d learned of Ramsay’s actions, the hamfisted sack of Winterfell, the Greyjoy hostage and his mistreatment, all leading to trouble. Roose does not intend to meet his end at the tip of a poisoned Crannogman’s spear or with an Ironborn axe planted in his chest, so he takes every precaution, concealing them all from sight as best he can, travelling by night, even disguising their appearance with drab clothing and another man’s banners. He had always been a cautious man, and in this matter he permits no exception. He and his heir must be preserved, as well as his and Ramsay’s necessary alliances, Walda and the Stark girl. 

Walda is a welcome distraction though. She did not shrink from his touch, but rather clung to him, enthusiastically taking to the marriage bed, and expressing her pleasure in the most palpable ways. At first he had hoped that her loud cries would cease, fearing the intervention of nosy innkeepers, but the knowing looks that they had given the couple over a hurried supper before their departure had eased his mind on that point. And it was nice, in a way, to see such enthusiasm. Walda was a spirited girl who grasped for pleasure with both hands and rarely came up wanting, whether it was a tumble in the sheets or a plate of gooey pastries, so different from what had come before. Roose had always had what he wanted, whether by force or coercion or by his own husbandly rights, but he had never had someone come so willingly. 

He watches as Walda licks the icing from her fingers as she rummages in a small cask, offering a cookie to their companion. The Lady Arya takes it reluctantly, clasping it between slim hands for a time, until she furtively begins to nibble at the treat, brushing the crumbs quickly from her gown upon finishing.

Walda’s eyes meet his and she grins, holding out the box to him. “I should not be so rude, sweetling! Have something, for it is a long journey!” she trills. 

Roose refuses, of course, but pats her knee idly as she busies herself with the cask and its contents. 

*

Everything had been a whirlwind. Exhausted from lack of sleep and her lack of familiarity with travel, Walda takes to her bed soon after their arrival at the Dreadfort. She had met so many people that their faces had blurred together into one harsh Northern mien. Maidservants and stableboys, stewards and kitchen staff, all had lined up to greet their master and his party. Roose had been gone for quite a while, and in his absence the staff had kept everything running like a well-greased wheel. 

She lies back on the bed, her stays loosened and her hair tumbling round her shoulders, closing her eyes. The only face that seems to have impressed itself upon her mind is that of her goodson’s. Ramsay Bolton had been an unimpressive young man, awkward and hulking in tacky finery beside Roose’s sparer, more austere form. He had smiled crookedly at her, greeting her as _Mother_ , despite the fact that he must have known Walda to be several years his junior, and had planted a wet kiss on her cheek. It had taken most of Walda’s self-control to keep herself from rubbing at the spot, as if to clear a bit of mud stirred up from the road. She’d been very aware of her courtesies, knowing that now she was a great lady of a great house, her conduct would be highly scrutinized, and she did not want to do any disservice to House Frey. Or House Bolton. 

The boy had approached his father, going on about some matter that Walda only half-understood, something about a hostage, and a burning castle. She knew that Winterfell, the North’s seat, had been under attack, although she had little interest in battles and their associated ugliness. The details were lost upon her as she stood by Roose’s side, listening to Ramsay’s rough voice, a poor impression of a lord’s, as he rambled on about how weak the Ironborn had proved. Ramsay had urged his father to detach himself from the women, in order to further discuss the triumph, but Walda was weary of it all, stiff from the confining trip and half-addled by the litany of blood and smoke that poured from Ramsay’s mouth. 

She turned to Roose, smiling. “I had thought, my lord…”

Roose had forgotten that she was there and turned to her. 

“I had thought,” Walda continued softly, “that it might be best to take an early supper in our quarters, and rest. It has been a long day and an even longer journey.”

Part of her enjoyed the look of disappointment on Ramsay’s face, and the way that it faded to a sullen resentment was not lost on her. She had seen such expressions before in her own brother’s sulks and her father’s surly brooding at table. Here was the thorn in the rose, in her side. She could suffer this, she knew. 

Roose had never spoken frequently of his bastard, only telling Walda that she would do best to steer clear of him, with his coarser ways. But sometimes he had alluded to another child, long dead. Domeric, he’d been called, his son by his last wife, and Walda had assured Roose that he would not grieve long for his lost child. Absorbed in her thoughts, she now does not think that the boy in the yard is much comfort. It is difficult to imagine him as Arya’s husband, the quiet girl almost disappearing into herself when he turned to embrace her, difficult to think of him as a son, or even as Roose’s son. 

_But soon_ , she thinks, resting her hand on her stomach, although it is far too early to feel much of anything. _Soon_ , she thinks with a smile, drifting off to sleep.


End file.
